


the tide of his breathing

by aloeverava



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:00:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloeverava/pseuds/aloeverava
Summary: He’s been the rounded corners on sheets of laminate so thin they might cut flesh, the gentle smudging of dark charcoal streaks Tsukishima leaves in his wake, the “gomen,” to his surname. Yamaguchi has been the side of him that he can’t seem to hurt, no matter how many times he swears he will. Yamaguchi has been the one to care for the cuts on the inside of his throat when Tsukishima’s own words leave his mouth bleeding, the one to ice the bruises on his heart that he gets from letting it rattle around his ribcage so recklessly.So why does Tsukki flinch away when Yamaguchi’s hand reaches out?The soft expanse of Yamaguchi’s palm approaching the quaking surface of Tsukishima’s skin means no harm, not an ounce of the intent to inflict pain. But Tsukishima’s body says otherwise. It reminds him of match-tipped fingertips forced round his throat while alit, split knuckles from punching his reflection, the fabric he tore from his body because he was filthy, it was all sofilthy,God, he just wanted—“Tsukki.”
Relationships: Tsukishima Kei/Yamaguchi Tadashi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 108





	the tide of his breathing

**Author's Note:**

> ava does it again! projection angst time <3
> 
> please mind the tags :)

Hesitant hands and breaths sucked in through teeth, crescents engraved into palms by blunt nails and paths painted down cheeks by dried tears. Cracked mirrors and torn clothes, brands emblazoned onto skin by match-tipped fingers, the phantom of a collar seizing his windpipe and holding steady there, steady until it tightens, squeezing harder, harder, and harder—

“Tsukki?”

_Go away_ is what Tsukishima wants to say. But instead, all that comes out of a sob he’s been shoving down for too long, ugly and dissonant. The sound flops ungracefully onto the bathroom floor, reflecting the fluorescent light harshly into their eyes.

“Tsukki, what’s wrong?”

Good question, Tsukishima thinks bitterly. What the hell _was_ wrong? His body was unharmed, the torn tissue and blood having left him long ago. He was whole, safe, and sound. He should have been fine—great, even.

“Please talk to me,” falls from Yamaguchi’s lips, gently slid across the tile to Tsukishima’s crumpled figure. It comes out cracked and broken and all too empathetic for his liking, but that’s just what Yamaguchi has always been to him.

He’s been the rounded corners on sheets of laminate so thin they might cut flesh, the gentle smudging of dark charcoal streaks Tsukishima leaves in his wake, the “gomen,” to his surname. Yamaguchi has been the side of him that he can’t seem to hurt, no matter how many times he swears he will. Yamaguchi has been the one to care for the cuts on the inside of his throat when Tsukishima’s own words leave his mouth bleeding, the one to ice the bruises on his heart that he gets from letting it rattle around his ribcage so recklessly.

So why does Tsukki flinch away when Yamaguchi’s hand reaches out?

The soft expanse of Yamaguchi’s palm approaching the quaking surface of Tsukishima’s skin means no harm, not an ounce of the intent to inflict pain. But Tsukishima’s body says otherwise. It reminds him of match-tipped fingertips forced round his throat while alit, split knuckles from punching his reflection, the fabric he tore from his body because he was filthy, it was all so _filthy,_ God, he just wanted—

“Tsukki.”

His eyes are still screwed shut, tears leaking from them to pool on his glasses, which sit at an odd angle across the bridge of his nose. They slip further down when he vehemently shakes his head, another strangled “no” (When had he started saying those?) pushed past his quivering lips. “No, no, no, I said n-no,” he hiccups, tears and snot and sweat running down his face in a disgusting cocktail.

_You know you want it._

_God, what a slut._

_Shut up, look at you—_

_—asked for it, for crying out loud!_

_Manwhore._

_—just being dramatic, ignore him. Let’s take this somewhere more private, yeah?_

Match-tipped fingers ignite against cheap convenience store lighters, the pack Tsukishima stole just because he could, one of which he kept in his back pocket because it was blue—

“What’s my favorite color, Tsukki? Tsukki, c’mon. Focus on my voice.”

The fog clears; there’s a silhouette in the distance that Tsukishima thinks is calling to him. _He’ll hurt you. He’ll hurt you, just like—_

“You know my favorite color, Tsukki. You know me. C-C’mon, please. It’s me, it’s T-Tadashi. I’m here, he isn’t. He c-can’t hurt…” The boy’s voice trails off, dissolving into tears of his own. His body meets the bathmat next to Tsukishima’s, head thudding against the wood of the cabinet door. “I’m so sorry, Tsukki. I’m so, so—”

_“—sorry. Oh my god, who did this to you? W-We need to call an ambulance, oh God, I’m so sorry I let this happen to you, Tsukki. Keep your eyes open, okay?”_

_Every cell in his body feels like giving up, but Tsukishima manages to will his hand to still one of Yamaguchi’s bustling ones. The touch freezes the boy in his place although the hold is frail and unsteady. It isn’t one of them clinging onto the other—no, it’s them gripping onto the last lifelines they have._

_“Not your fault.”_

“...What was that?”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tadashi,” he mumurs into his knees, which is face is still tucked against. So quietly that it may have been a sputtering of the A/C or just another ugly sniffle, but the melody of Tsukishima’s voice, no matter how out of tune or far away it was, is distinctive to Yamaguchi’s ears.

Slowly, carefully, one millimeter at a time, Tsukishima reaches a hand out.

Touches skin, skin that has never dared to mar his own. Touches the familiar map of freckles and lines and the faintest traces of hair, touches him. Touches Yamaguchi.

_Match-tipped fingers—_

Tsukishima grips tighter, extinguishing the flame. Pulls.

And suddenly they are no longer fighting for air in a house fire, but floating together in an ocean where there is nothing but the crystal clear aquamarine for miles all around them, water that swallows up their tears and washes Tsukishima’s body of every last trace of dirt.

The sea sways with the wind, letting its contents flow and ebb as it pleases. The boys do the same, cradling one another in a space where there is no room for lighters or matches or cruel, cruel intentions.

Maybe their lips or their noses or their foreheads or their chests meet. Maybe their legs tangle themselves within one another and tie knots so complex you can’t see where they end and begin. Maybe they just ride the small crescents of the waves, listening to one another’s heartbeat with the rhythm of the sea.

Whatever it is that happens, Tsukishima knows this: he is whole, safe, and sound, even if it took his everything to do so. The water has left him clean despite never being dirty to begin with. It has united him with the boy whose favorite color is—

“Blue.”

Yamaguchi smiles into the crook of Tsukishima’s shoulder, relief flooding his veins.

“Mhm,” he hums. “Blue.”

**Author's Note:**

> stay safe <3


End file.
